The 10th day!
by Jellybean225
Summary: "10 days; that's all it took. 10 days before it all closed down, his world, his family, his friends. No matter who tried to help, it wouldn't stop until the world had folded in upon it's self." T for themes! Depression, eating disorders etc. Warning: may be triggers, First try at this kinda stuff, sorry!
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, this is my first attemp at a darkfic-ish! Oh dear. Anyway, I have rated it T because of the themes, it was an M but i'm not sure it should have been that high. Also anything you want me to change, just say x There probs won't be any slash or anything, so if you're looking for yaoi, please don't be to disappointed! I may do fluff later though x**

**Anyway, please enjoy, reviews are very welcome!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock :(**

10 days; that's all it took.

10 days before it all closed dtown, his world, his family, his friends. No matter who tried to help, it wouldn't stop until the world had folded in upon it's self.

The blood; the pain and the suffering, John thought he was above that. After seeing tragedy day after day, night after night, he believed he would never fall that low.

However, even during the war and the fighting, the loss and the constant mourning; John never because close enough to another soul.

Once the war had ended, he felt able to get closer, he felt safer. He allowed a few people, (not many) but a few, into his life. He allowed himself to get closer, to care for them, to live with him.

By doing this, he blames himself if something were to happen.

He's always blamed himself.

Through the death of family, and colleges, and now through Sherlocks death.

He still blames himself.

That's why, in just over a week, John found himself cooped up in mental institution, with no means of recovery.

"Breakfast, get up." There was a loud banging sound on his door, and a harsh voice could be heard through the metal door of his 'room'.

Glancing in the direction of the pale white wall that was covered in marks (That he didn't even want to think how they got there!) he looked up at the wall clock.

It read: '7:30 am'

Every morning.

It's always the same time. He had lost count of how many days he had been there, he had even tried scratching tally marks into the pale walls in a hope of keeping that small connection with the outside world, he had left. However, that soon became a chore and died a monotous death.

Sitting up in his bunk, he rubbed the remaining sleep out of his eyes. His room was designed for two people; although, last time he had a room mate he had thought of his dead friend and turned violet. He was deined a room mate again, for both his and their safety.

He felt issolated, cut off from the rest of socitity. Upset and truely alone.

The only person he ever got to talk to was either the doctors or very few of the othe paients at group talks. The rest of the time he was cooped up in his room with little to do than think to himself and reflect back on the past.

Hoping off the bunk, he stretched , taking a deep sigh he strode over to the sink and washed his face. Throwing on an old , he ran his hand through his hair in an attemp to even it out.

Although, it had grown so much in the time he had been there, it almost covered his blue, now dull looking, eyes.

How had it come to this?

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After Sherlock's death, John felt alone. Day after Day, he would sit in his chair, staring at the one positioned opposite picturing his curly haired friend, working away at another one of his cases. At first, he had been able to reflect on those good days, and the good times he had spent together. All the amazing things they...well he...had achieved.

It made him smile, all the insults and humerous events that had taken place. Like the incident in Buckingham palace and his argument with Mycroft.

Hoever, soon those memorys started to fade, as did the sun, the happiness and what was left of his sanity.

He made himself believe that if he had been more observant, listened more and payed attention to the others needs.

He could have prevented this.

If it wasn't for him and his selfish ways, Sherlock would still be alive, living, breathing...

He felt he needed to punish himself, for everything. He didn't deserve the friends he had; Molly, Lestrade, Miss Hudson...and all the others. They had all been so nice to him, treated him fair, he had disappointed them, let them down.

So he tried destroyed all communication with them. He believed that they would be happier knowing that he was punishing himself because he was responsible.

Although, it was harder than it looked. Miss Hudson came to check on him every day after 'the fall', no matter what he said, she insisted.

Lestrade was easier to ignore, apart from the occasional pity visit, which even then John refused to open the door.

And then there was Mycroft.

Out of the lot, he was the hardest to ignore. If it wasn't for him, he would be free, and not stuck in this prision cell.

It had been the afternoon of the 10th day of Sherlocks death.

John had been alone in his flat, during the past few days his sanity had esculated for the worse. He had lost controll and resorted to cutting. He felt bad, but at the same time proud.

It had been the night before, he had dreamt of the day, the day Sherlock had fallen. He could take it anymore, he had to leave. Rid himself from the others, get off their backs. It had been that day that Mycroft had visited unexpectedly.

What happened next he was unaware; although, whatever happened, happened. And he had ended up here.

**Thank you for reading, please review, follow, favourite, whatever you like x See ya next time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, how is everyone that's read the story? Or is reading it? Thank you to my follower, knowing some-ones there means a lot to me! And it would be appreciated if more people would tell me what they think! As I might decidebto discontinue if I don't get any responses...your choice xD **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlockk**

**Breakfast was painful, like it had been everyday since he had been admitted. John spent hours in that hall, listening to the nurses lecture him into eating. It never helped. He had lost all intrest in food. Just the sight of it made him gag. **

**But they wouldn't let him leave until he had eaten at least 3 bites.**

**Even then he went back to his room and desposed of the little he had eaten into the toilet. **

**It was getting close to miday, he had spent that morning in B20 in the C ward. He had been forced to attend a therapy session with a Doctor called 'Mr. Bermain'. He was a tall, slender, and wore a blue scarf that hung loosly round his neck. He had dark brown hair that hung just past his ears; even though, it was swept over in a finge like manor, it still had small characteristics like Sherlock.**

**He dreaded those sessions, they reminded him of Sherlock's puzzled expression every time he got annoyed or over reacted over nothing. He was sure the man didn't realise, or mean nothing by it, but he still broke down into sobs each time he came into contact with the man. The poor guy had no idea why. **

**It normally ended with some form of sedative after John starts to picture Sherlock instead of Mr Bermain and is sent into a panic attack.**

**It was embrassing for John, he felt like he was loosing all hope of getting over Sherlock, he felt like his heart had been ripped out and without it there was no means of survival.**

**Try as he will, he couldn't remove the memories of his friends dead or the memories of the past time they had spent together.**

**No, no. Those memories haunted him, every night and every day.**

**If a random stranger was to look at his admission file, they would certainly be surprised. John felt as if he was experienceing hell on earth with the amount of problems one man had caused.**

**As if that wasn't enough, he was now locked up with no way of escaping.**

**Thanks for reading! I know it's short, but next chapter should be longer! If I bother to write it. Review for moree pleaseeeee x Thanks x**


	3. Chapter 3

It's been so difficult to upload off my phone it's painfull! I have had one of the worst experiences uploading tonight. Uggh anyway, Thank you to my one reviewer and 3 followers...wow... if only there were more of you amazing people! Please review, if you do I will read and revire one of yours if you like x anyway enough...

_Disclaimer: dont own..._

_Chapter: 3_

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Breakfast was painful, like it had been everyday since he had been admitted. John spent hours in that hall, listening to the nurses lecture him into eatng. It never helped. He had lost all intrest in food. Just the sight of it made him gag.

But they wouldn't let him leave until he had eaten at least 3 bites.

Even then he went back to his room and desposed of the litlle he had eaten.

It was getting close to miday, he had spent that morning in B20 in the C ward. He had been forced to attend a theropy session with a Doctor called 'Mr. Bermain'. He was a tall, slender, and some times wore a blue scarf that hung loosly round his neck. He dreaded those sessions, they reminded him of Sherlocks' puzzed expression every time he got annoyed or over reacted over nothing. He was sure the man didn't realise, or mean nothing by it, but he still dreaded those sessions.

All of them.

That day they were all forced to go out into the coutyard just after miday. It was a weekly thing, the only part of his stay that let him breath freash air.

He was lead down the corridors by two nurses, why he needed two was beyond him, all through the corridor the only sounds were either from the mentally disturbed or the 'click-clop' of the nurses heals. Which were closely in line with the other.

When he reached the double doors to the yard, he was met by the other patients. They were all sitting along a large picnic bench that were surrounded by dead or presumably dying plants that looked as if they had never seen the sun.

Which in this case was probably true judging by the height of the dirty building that towered over them. John had never really bothered to look before; however, now he took a closer look ar the architecture of the building it's appearance was rather dissapointing. For a building that looked as though it posessed at leave 5 floors maybe more, it was badly kept. There was paint peeling and rotting on the walls and the window frames were covered in rust and dirt. They windows were no-longer clear and there was a thick layer of dirt that covered them preventing anything from seeing in. Let alone out.

Circulating, John noticed that the walls to the courtyard only consisted of building and concreate that through erosion had slowly started to rot away the limestone leaving it crumbly and abandened.

There were cracks.

Lots of cracks.

Some even presented a look of volience, as though they had been tampered with. Which when looking around wouldn't have been surprising.

John was situated on the Goatian ward; it was a male only ward with paitents that suffered from the same kind of 'illness' as him. Although, some also consisted of hallucinations, for example; John had met a man called Peter during his stay. The man was one of the most disturbed people he had met since the war. He was shorter than John, had back hair and numerical holes in his skin that were designed for facial piercings; however, due to restrictions were banned.

He was a pleaseant guy, he was well mannored and quite shy, he only looked about 22.

Poor guy had been in for 4 years.

It made John wonder if some wounds ever heal.

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Thank you if you have read this far and enjoyed it, my panicking was for nothing xD Please review 3 It means a lot to me! Till next time..!


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